


Tea with Women

by aceofhearts61



Series: A Love with No Name [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, Banter, Comfort, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hugs, Love, M/M, Schmoop, Soulmates, Tea, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-29
Updated: 2011-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofhearts61/pseuds/aceofhearts61
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mary Morstan invites Sherlock and John over for tea, and her partner is the last woman Sherlock ever expected to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea with Women

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea behind this fic just after finishing my last one and needless to say, I HAD to write it. ;)

_Tea with Women_

* * *

It wasn't until a year and a couple months had passed that John and Mary started talking about introducing their partners to one another. John would go over to Mary's flat for a shag once or twice a week, not every week but at least two a month, and in fifteen months he had never actually seen Mary's partner. He suspected the mysterious woman's disappearances were at least partially deliberate, although Mary told him she was always working and left the city (or the country) fairly often. Mary had already met Sherlock, of course, but never again once John started visiting her. It took Mary and John a solid month before they set an actual day and time, and Mary insisted John bring Sherlock over for tea rather than meet her in a pub (she thought tea at her flat would be more intimate). Sherlock hadn't exactly protested when John asked; he had only asked _why_.

"Mary thinks it would be nice," John said to him. "I haven't actually met her lady and if I'm going to meet her, it's only proper that you come too, since you're my husband and all that."

Sherlock didn't say any more after, silently agreeing as John phoned Mary and told her they would be over that Friday for tea.

* * *

Sherlock chose a short-backed arm chair between the sofa and another big chair upon entering Mary Morstan's sitting room. John sat on one end of the sofa, while Mary returned to the kitchen to mind the kettle. Her flat was a mixture of standard femininity that must belong to Mary—a lot of floral prints—and a more neutral energy, sharp and clean and assertive without dominating the feminine. There weren't any photographs that he could see, which intrigued him; he would expect a pair of women to have a least one photo of themselves in plain view. He and John had none at Baker Street, of course; they were gentlemen disinterested in leaving evidence of their intimacy lying around for other people to intrude upon.

Mary brought out the tea, glancing at her watch but pouring the men cups out of courtesy. She sat on the other side of the sofa, leaving a wide space between her and John, and she began to ask Sherlock what he was currently working on. He deflects and says he'd rather not talk about work, and John picks up right after him, asking Mary about her recent holiday to Ireland.

Mary's partner walks into the sitting room and stops in a pose of the most nonchalant confidence John has ever seen, right hand on her hip that juts out to the side. She's unusually tall for a woman, with long and slender lines, her almost-black hair cut into a short bob that sweeps just below her ear lobes. She has a striking face but hers is a hard, vaguely masculine beauty. She's wearing a sleek black suit with a mint green shirt unbuttoned to her breasts. She looks at Mary with her dark, dark eyes and the faintest trace of a smile on her lips.

"Sorry I'm late," she says. She's an American, which surprises John, and her voice is deeper than he's ever heard in a woman. He vaguely remembers Mary mentioning an opera career.

Sherlock bolts up on his feet. " _You_ ," he says in a breathy growl.

The woman smirks. "Mr. Holmes. Pleased to see you again."

"You two know each other?" John says.

"Quite well."

"I had no idea!" Mary says. "You should've mentioned it; we could've arranged this meeting much sooner! John, this is Irene, my—well, you know."

The woman extends her hand to John with an ease about her. "Irene Adler. I've heard about you."

"John Watson," he says, smiling uncertainly. "Glad to finally make your acquaintance."

Sherlock is still standing with his shoulders tensed, his eyes smoldering on her. She straightens up away from John and looks at Sherlock, almost as tall as he is, her body at a diagonal to him.

"Tea still cooling, Mary?" she says, eyes on Sherlock's.

"Still steaming, yeah," Mary says.

"Good."

John watches Irene and Sherlock stare at each other, their ferocity almost a smell in the air, like bread burning in a toaster.

Irene's mobile begins to ring and she pulls it out of her pants pocket and excuses herself back outside. Sherlock doesn't sit down until she shuts the door behind her. John decides not to ask.

* * *

The tea is cool enough to drink when Irene returns and sits in her favorite chair adjacent to the one Sherlock occupies. He stiffens when she does, but she ignores him, smiling at Mary and asking John how he is and how work is at the clinic. Sherlock watches her without saying a word, but she acts as if he isn't there.

"How did you and Mary meet?" John says to Irene. He already knows the story but he's trying to be polite. He also figures Sherlock, beneath his bizarre disdain for Irene, might be curious about the women.

"Oh, we're old friends." By now, Irene's body looks much more relaxed. "I was born in the States, but I moved to London when I was fourteen. She and I went to school together for years, lived together through college too. How long's it been, Mary?"

"We've known each other twenty-four years," Mary says. "Twenty-five in a few months."

"Jesus, I'm getting old."

"So how did you end up here, then?" says John.

"Well—it took us a while. We used to talk about spending our lives together when we were girls; girls do that sort of thing, pretend they won't get married and live happily ever after with each other. I assumed she would grow out of it, since she's the romantic type. I've always been more into sex, myself."

She smirks, cheeky, and John can't help but grin back. Sherlock continues to glare.

"Anyway, she never did find a man she liked enough to shackle herself to. I wasn't looking in the first place. At some point, it just seemed logical for us to make a real commitment. We've been each other's favorite person so long…. I've always loved her most in the world. Don't know how she feels on that matter, but—"

" _Please_. Don't be dim," Mary says. "Of course I always loved you most."

The women beam at each other quietly across the coffee table. Irene breaks their eye contact and sits back into her chair, arms spread out. She looks as if she owns the whole world.

"So you and Mr. Holmes are married."

"That's right," John says, not hiding how he pleased he is about it. "Six years now."

"I was married once," says Irene, lighting a cigarette and snapping her lighter shut. She crosses her legs. "To a man, of course. Only did it for the money. Most idiotic decision I've ever made. Thank God the bastard's dead."

John notices Mary trying hard not to laugh beside him, pursing her lips together, her cheeks pink.

"Did you kill him yourself?" Sherlock says, sneering.

"Sherlock," John says.

Irene raises her eyebrows lightly. "That depends. If I say yes, will you have more or less respect for me?"

Mary rolls her eyes. "She didn't kill her husband."

"Nor did I cry at his funeral. Had one hot fuck at the after party, though."

John chokes on his tea.

"Which is a perfect metaphor for the truth about men," says Irene.

Mary rolls her eyes and shakes her head but her mouth has traces of a grin on it. "And what's that?"

"Men are boring," she says. "Except for when they're damn good shags."

Mary huffs a giggle.

"Really, that's the only thing they're good for. No offense, John."

"None taken, I guess," he says. "Although—I have to say, I think Sherlock is a necessary exception to your rule."

"You're right." Irene turns her attention to Sherlock again, baring her teeth. "Mr. Holmes is an exception. In many ways."

Sherlock squints his eyes a bit at her, silent. She puffs on her cigarette.

"Really, Holmes, I'm being honest. Of all the men I've ever met in my life—God only knows how many—you're the only one I find impressive and worth recall. And I haven't even fucked you, for Christ's sake."

"Do you expect me to be flattered?" he says.

"No, you don't care for flattery, do you? At least, not from women." She looks at Mary. "Mr. Holmes has no appreciation for our sex, dear. Which is just as well, since I have none for his."

"The only real contribution of your sex, madam, is the reproduction of imbeciles. I hardly think that earns you a Nobel Prize," says Sherlock.

Irene grins at him. "You're still pissed I beat you."

"So that's what this is about," John says to Mary in a low murmur.

"You escaped, there's a difference," Sherlock says. "Had I not been late by mere minutes, I would've had you."

"Oh, fuck off, Holmes, I beat you," says Irene with obvious self-satisfaction. "And after all this time, you're ego _still_ hasn't recovered!"

She slaps her thigh, grinning brilliantly. John almost wants to chuckle at Sherlock's sullen expression. He hadn't known that The Woman to whom Sherlock sometimes referred had actually outsmarted him; this would make for excellent teasing in the future.

"I assure you, Adler, my ego is perfectly intact," Sherlock says, almost hissing.

"I'm surprised you fit your way into the fuckin' front door then," says Irene good-naturedly, taking a drag on her cigarette.

"Would anyone like some more tea?" says Mary.

"That would be lovely, thanks," says John.

She pours him a cup.

"Considering how many men have passed through it before me, I couldn't possibly have any trouble," Sherlock says to Irene.

"Are you jealous, Holmes?" she says with a grin. "Want me to take you upstairs for a nice, quick fuck? Not that you'd know the difference between a good one and a shit one."

"No, thank you," says Sherlock, his tone and his face equally cool. "If I wanted a whore, I would pay for one more likable."

John coughs loudly, but neither Sherlock nor Irene pays him attention, locked into a stare absolutely impossible for John to read. Sherlock looks about ready to shoot her, and Irene could either fire back or shag him right there into his char.

"Irene," John says. She looks over at him. Mary's sitting on the other side of the sofa, her lips pressed together a bit. "Would you—ah—be so kind as to show me around the kitchen? I'm in the mood for some toast with my tea."

She leans out of her seat and squashes her cigarette into the ash tray on the coffee table, before getting up. He follows her out of the sitting room and into the kitchen, door swinging shut after them.

* * *

"Son of a bitch," she says. "Sorry about that back there. Your husband and I are apparently incapable of acting human while in the same room together."

"It's all right. Sherlock doesn't exactly go out of his way to play nice."

"I like him, John, I really do—but I'm not the kind of woman who grovels for a man's kindness."

"Perfectly understandable."

Irene sighs. "Damn. Almost forgot what it was like, getting into it with him. I hope you don't fight with him like that."

John chuckles. "Not quite that way, no."

"Good. That's good."

"If it means anything, I do apologize on his behalf for the offensive things he said."

She waves him away. "Oh, don't bother, it's all bullshit anyway. I don't mind it coming from him. I'll tell you one thing, though."

"What's that?"

"I was serious about the nice, quick fuck."

John barks a laugh.

"If he wasn't a virgin, Sherlock Holmes would be a fucking brilliant shag, Dr. Watson," she says. "I can always recognize the brilliant ones."

"I could've lived without hearing that analysis."

* * *

In the sitting room, Sherlock's shoulders slump in a kind of defeat, and Mary pities him. She looks at him compassionately, unsure how to console him.

"Irene can get carried away sometimes," she says.

Sherlock doesn't answer.

"She didn't mean to offend you."

"I'm not offended."

"Oh. All right."

Mary holds her mug in her lap with both hands and waits.

* * *

"So," says John. "I've heard what Mary has to say about you. Now, I'm curious. What do you—what's your feeling? About her. You two seem so different."

Irene doesn't answer right away. She thinks about it a while, but John figures she's far too smart to lack the words. More like, she's choosing which ones.

"Mary is the only tenderness in my life," she says, looking at John and then back into her mug. "I'm a different person with her. Better."

He doesn't say anything, wanting to hear what she has to say, wanting to understand, curious about her. She pauses for a bit, before continuing.

"Women have always had a way of being together," she says. "Throughout history. We've loved each other well, long before men even quit looking at us sideways. I've been with a lot of men, John. On multiple continents, which I hear you can relate to."

He smirks as she stares at him.

"Some of them might've been worth loving, I guess. But I'll tell you: it's a hell of a lot easier to love Mary than any man. Not least of all because I can be who I want to be with her. I don't have to give anything up. She's never going to ask me to stop doing the work I do or play babysitter to a bunch of kids I don't want or some other bullshit."

"I know what you mean," John says.

They fall quiet for a while, both of them staring into their tea and neither of them can hear any noise coming from the sitting room, not even whispers. Irene looks up again and at John.

"I'm glad she has you for a fuck buddy." The expression on her face is so meaningful, it startles him. "And a friend. I know I can trust you with her."

"Trust me not to hurt her or trust me not to take her away from you?"

Irene's mouth flickers. "Mostly the latter."

"My God," says John, looking at her in astonishment. "You're so like him."

"Holmes?" She snorts, her softness evaporating. "Christ, is that an insult or a compliment?"

"Probably both."

They quirk opposite sides of their mouths at each other.

* * *

Mary gets up from the sofa and moves to Irene's chair, perching on the corner of it and leaning toward Sherlock where he sits in the one adjacent.

"Sherlock," she says. "I just want to thank you—for introducing me to John. It's been fantastic, for the both of us, I think. Such a relief not to have to brave the pubs anymore."

She leans back a little, hand on her chest, smiling. Sherlock is suddenly quiet, ferocious contempt gone with Irene into the kitchen and a kind of sadness in its place.

"Yes, well," he says. "Glad to be of service."

She watches him, concerned now, taken off guard by this change in his disposition. "Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"Are you sure? Did I say something?"

He shakes his head, eyes fixed into his lap. She searches his face.

"Sherlock," she says, just as she's thinking it. "Do you not feel right anymore about me and John? Is that it?"

"John is an adult; he's entitled to do what he pleases. And you—are a good woman, Ms. Morstan. I wouldn't have had you introduced if I thought otherwise."

She straightens back, mouth agape a little. "After all these years together, you still doubt his loyalty?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. Mary's hand darts out to rest over his arm and they make eye contact again. She's looking at him with such sensitivity, he feels ashamed of himself.

"Oh, Sherlock," she says. "Do you want to know what John and I talk about most? You. And Irene. We show up for the shag, but the reason we're friends is because we understand what it's like."

"What?"

"Being in love," she says, her pretty face glowing in the sunshine coming through the window, blue eyes and pink lips soft and warm. "Being so taken with another person, even though you don't want to have sex with them. John told me you're asexual and I don't mean to be rude, really I don't, but…. Maybe you don't realize what it's like, how odd it is for someone like me or John to fall in love with a person we don't want to shag. We could never talk about it to anyone, until now."

"It wasn't so odd prior to the 20th century," Sherlock says in a low tone.

She quirks the right corner of her mouth and squeezes his arm. "John and I are friends. We help each other satisfy a need—but it's such a trivial one, really. I'll tell you a secret: I would give up sex entirely, for the rest of my life, if it was the only way to keep Irene. And I promise you—" She makes sure to look deeply into Sherlock's eyes, "—that John feels the same way about you. I swear, the way he talks about you…. No one could ever live up."

Sherlock looks down into his lap again, at her small white hand on the sleeve of his blazer. He covers it with his own.

* * *

"You two are awfully quiet in here," John says, as he and Irene come out of the kitchen and back into the sitting room. Sherlock and Mary look up at them, hands still together on Sherlock's arm. John stops when he sees Sherlock's eyes.

"Are you all right?" he says.

Sherlock gives a curt nod. Irene bounces her attention from Mary to him and back; she has a pretty good idea what they were talking about. Mary takes her hand back from Sherlock and smoothes her lap. Irene crosses the room and stands in front of her, holds out her hand, and Mary takes it, standing up.

"Another kettle of tea is in order," says Irene, as she leads Mary past John and back into the kitchen.

Sherlock averts his eyes back down into his lap, while John stands behind the sofa and watches him. He knows something's wrong but he doesn't know what. And he doubts Sherlock will tell him. He rounds the sofa, slides past the coffee table and sits with Sherlock in the arm chair, hand on the other man's knee. Sherlock still won't lift his head.

"Oy," John says gently. "Will you look at me?"

Sherlock does. They look at each other.

"Come here."

John hooks his arm around Sherlock's neck and Sherlock turns his body toward him, until they're hugging each other with both arms. Sherlock closes his eyes and slackens against John, head heavy on his bad shoulder. John's got his chin in Sherlock's; he can smell the expensive cologne faint in his suit jacket. One hand on the long back, the other splayed over Sherlock's neck, fingers in the curls.

They sit like that in silence, the women unheard of on the other side of the door.

* * *

They're standing next to the refrigerator, Irene up against the kitchen counter. She's got her arms looped around Mary's torso and Mary has hers looped around Irene's neck.

"He loves John so tremendously," Mary says, quiet as she can. "It makes my heart ache."

Irene has a knowing smile.

* * *

Sherlock doesn't want to let go. His head and half his body linger against John, who has one hand braced against Sherlock's shoulder and tries to look at his face but can't quite.

"I'm not even going to ask what's on in that crazy head of yours," he says, without any real impatience. He moves his hand to the side of Sherlock's head, resting it there, thumb stroking cheek. His ring glints amidst Sherlock's hair. "Jesus, I hate it when you're sad."

Sherlock breaks into a real grin at that. John pushes him off and takes Sherlock's face in both hands, holding it right up close in front of his. They look at each other, blue eyes and brown eyes clear and open.

John leans in and holds a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, right at the corner of his mouth. Eyes shut, hands warm, unexpectedly emotional. When he pulls away, it's only far enough to see Sherlock's eyes again—and Sherlock doesn't wait more than two seconds before returning the kiss.

* * *

Irene and Mary stand together in the front doorway of their building, hands clasped between them. They wave John and Sherlock off, as the men's cab pulls into the road. John waves back. Sherlock just stares at them behind the window. Irene gives him a sassy wink.

"That woman," he says, facing forward once the cab's left the building behind. "That conniving, manipulative, arrogant, calculating woman. How someone like Mary could stand her is beyond all comprehension. What?"

John's watching him and grinning. "I swear, Irene Adler is your female incarnation."

Sherlock snorts. "Absurd."

John shakes his head. Sherlock looks out the window.

"In any case, I'm glad Mary has the person she wants," he says softly.

"I'm glad I have you," says John.

Sherlock looks back at him. Then lifts one corner of his mouth.


End file.
